“let me see your hands.â€
she studies them.
my nails are scavenger birds,
pinched skin palms like half-eaten crop.
i squirm– colicky and caffeinated,
sink into an armchair
and pretend I’m picking another afternoon.
Â
the room is an echo chamber,
round corners and mustard bonsai,
white noise stuffed into milky ceramic
and a tan tart ginger tea–
get me out of here.
Â
her questions are cautious.
drawing punctuation like pick-up sticks,
i think of how she must see me–
unmade bed of a person;
tungsten bulb in the hottest July
or soft like a jar of bruised jamuns
hoping this summer they’ll pickle.
i am wary of rescue,
italicised diagnoses
and ivory china–
the woman offers a smile.
Â
she searches my mouth for signs of a lesion
finds the carmine molars
guilty of assault.
fingers curled like prescription vowels,
i swallow tears like antihistamines, choke
then blame it on the agarbatti.
i play it cool–
caramel bisque
at the brink of a fissure.
Â
the scene is infernal,
i am Achlys and in the window
is a dying sun.
she watches me crumple,
fold into myself like origami–
a putrid crop at harvest.
the sun flickers to a soft marmalade;
wooden floor possessed by light,
a carpet scattered with spare moments
and suddenly these walls are made of skin.
Â
high tide,
and mine is a sandcastle world.
this moment is delicate
i hold my breath. float a while.
she drapes me in cling wrap,
sets me down in a fruit basket
and calls the evening glorious.
Â
“let me see your hands.â€
she holds them and I think
maybe I like this armchair,
“can I have some of that tea?â€
